


I Might Go To Heaven, But Probably Not

by grace13star



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: ARG references, Angst, Gen, Ghostbur, Hurt No Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:26:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27742957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grace13star/pseuds/grace13star
Summary: The hand that held the sword is the only thing that he can really recall. When he tries to picture the face the hand belonged to, his head starts to hurt, and he feels as though he’s unraveling into the void he’s found himself stuck in.In fact, he can’t remember much of anything. He remembers a few things, things that seem important, but many events in between are lost, and he has no clue how to piece the puzzle together.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 36





	I Might Go To Heaven, But Probably Not

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Bad Bad Things by AJJ
> 
> Hi guys! If you're wondering how my life is going, I am hyper fixated on block men roleplaying Hamilton, so that should answer your question. 
> 
> Uhh, so this was written right after we met Ghostbur, so a lot of the characterization is wrong, but I wanted to post it anyways because I really liked it. I could probably connect this to the recent events if anyone wants me to continue this. 
> 
> Okay cool, enjoy!

Wilbur didn’t expect to wake up. 

His head was foggy and he didn’t remember much, but he did remember the one thought he’d had when the sword had first made contact. 

I’m free.

The hand that held the sword is the only thing that he can really recall. When he tries to picture the face the hand belonged to, his head starts to hurt, and he feels as though he’s unraveling into the void he’s found himself stuck in. 

In fact, he can’t remember much of anything. He remembers a few things, things that seem important, but many events in between are lost, and he has no clue how to piece the puzzle together. 

He remembers some feelings from the blank parts of his memory, the betrayal, confusion, paranoia, the hatred that seemed so all-consuming, he’s confused as to how he could ever forget something like that. 

Wilbur floats for what seems like centuries. 

He’s alone in this void. It stretches on for seeming infinity in every direction. In the beginning, he tried to find the end. 

Despite how large the space feels, Wilbur can’t shake the feeling of claustrophobia. 

He thinks of some words he wrote, long ago, words that seem depressingly accurate to his current predicament. 

The roads are my home, the horizon’s my target  
If I keep on moving, never lose sight of it  
Treating my memory of you like a fire, let it  
Burn out, don’t fight it, and try to move on

He tries to sing to himself, but his voice is scratchy and his throat scrapes when he tries to talk. 

He does it anyway. Anything to break up the constant black pressing against his eyes. At least the pain is something to focus on. 

His skin is grey and pale, and he feels cold all the time. The sweater he’s wearing is modeled after his favorite one from home, but the yellow is washed out and saturated, and the bottom hem is fraying. 

Sometimes he hears voices echoing from the shadows around him. He can’t make out the words, but sometimes he feels like he can recognize the voices. He hears a shout that sounds like Tommy’s, and he spends a few hours searching for- well, he doesn’t know for what exactly. While he would kill for someone to talk to, he wouldn’t want anyone to be stuck here with him. 

Over time, the sounds get louder. They get longer. 

He can hear full sentences, sometimes snippets of conversations. Sometimes he can see things, little flashes of the world he used to live in. One time a tree materializes in front of him, and he almost breaks his nose colliding with it. 

He sits under it, feeling the bark with his hand and imagining he’s still in L’Manberg with his friends, his brother, and he can almost feel the wind on his skin.

When the tree disappears, so do the leaves he tried to save in his pocket. 

All he can do in the void is think and talk to himself. He thinks and talks a lot. 

He wonders if he’s in hell. He wonders if there even is a hell. He wonders what he did to deserve hell, if that’s where he is. 

Time blurs together, and though he tries to keep track of it in the beginning, soon he can’t even recognize how long a second is. He’s always a bit too fast, or a bit too slow. That’s the point when he realizes he can’t feel his heartbeat. 

That’s the point when he breaks down for the first time. 

It was probably overdue if Wilbur was being honest. 

At first, it’s quiet, silent sobs escaping his chest before he can contain them. But there’s no one around to see him anyway, so he gives up the pretense. His throat scratches with his heaving breaths. It hurts even more when he starts screaming at whatever or whoever might be listening. 

He remembers the Sky Gods, and he wonders if this is some sort of punishment from them. 

There is no response. 

He’s tired of being cold. 

Then, he’s back. 

At first, Wilbur thinks a few trees have just appeared again, and he braces himself for when they inevitably disappear. But then he goes to walk forward and hears the once-familiar sound of grass and dirt beneath his foot. 

He’s not willing to let himself hope too much, but he can feel it welling in his chest already as he walks forwards, towards a clearing up ahead. 

And then, once he gets to the clearing, he can see the sky. 

That’s his second breakdown. 

He can’t believe he ever took the sky for granted. The bright blue hurts his eyes, but he can’t stop staring at the clouds he never thought he’d see again. 

Silhouetted against the sky, he can see a familiar tower, one of Dream’s. It’s at the very least a landmark, so he starts that way, trying to keep himself from running. 

He passes Dream’s territory quickly, making his way towards L’Manberg. If he could feel his heart, he’s sure it would be pounding. 

And then he’s there, and his happiness disappears in an instant. 

The city he built from the ground up, the city he fought a war for, is gone. A few buildings on the edges still stand, but in the middle, the place he built the Camarvan, the place it all started, is nothing but a crater, a mess of rubble and destruction. 

He stares in shock for a second, falling to his knees next to a tree. He grips the hem of his sweater as a flood of emotions overtakes him. There’s paranoia and anger, but also some feeling of relief and happiness. 

And as he looks out over the ruins of his city, the ruins he can’t remember, Wilbur Soot starts to laugh. 

He’s still so cold.


End file.
